


At Sea

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Beaches, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Ocean, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Overstimulation, Tentacle Dick, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, near-drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sea, Armin learns, is also as cruel as it is beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Sea

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt link.](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/8414.html?thread=6731998#cmt6731998) This isn't beta'ed, so any errors are my own.

As much as Armin loves books, he’s always known that they will ever fall short in their ability to convey what the world is really like. A page about a meadow, even with a well-drawn illustration of a meadow, isn’t the same as flopping down in it and feeling the grass tickle your skin, smelling rain on the wind, feeling the sun on the back of your neck, listening to the larks trill and the mourning doves sob.

His grandfather’s book couldn’t even have begun to convey the entirety of the sea. The sound of it, from the gurgling of little breakers washing up on the sand (the _sand_ , Armin could rhapsodize just about the sand and all the little treasures in it for days) to the full-throated roar of a towering wave. The way it goes on and on and on, far past where the eye can see, so blue, bluer than the sky that stretches out to meet it at that faraway point where it ends. How full of salt it is, so full that it gives off mists of salt the way titans gave off steam, mists that smell strangely and wonderfully good — who knew that salt could smell good? How the salt in the water makes it feel so different on bare skin than fresh water does, how it buoys him and Eren and Mikasa up.

They’re all naked, having left their clothes up above the tideline and swum out about a hundred meters. They’ve all seen each other in the nude a thousand times, the vast majority of those times having been completely non-sexual. Eren looks beyond delighted, actually ecstatic, splashing around and laughing and just _marveling_. Even Mikasa is smiling, the water seeming to have washed the wary tension that’s always in her straight out of her blood.

Suddenly Armin feels himself pulled sharply away from Eren and Mikasa. Seaward, if not very far in that direction, only about a meter. Mikasa’s brow furrows. “Armin?”

“Strong current,” he says, righting himself. “We have to be careful not to let it sweep us out to sea.”

“Aren’t we ‘out to sea’ already?” Eren asks, confused.

“No, not really? We’re at the seashore. ‘At sea’ or ‘out to sea’ means you’re so far out that you can’t see anything around you but wa—”

The current yanks him under the surface, then pulls him away with the speed of a cannonball. He hears both Mikasa and Eren screaming his name, the sounds distorted through what seem like layers of water before they fade out completely.

Survival training from the days of the 104th kicks in. Panicking will make him do nothing but inhale water. He holds his breath, despite the cold burn spreading through his lungs, and tries to float to the surface on his back.

And then there’s something around his ankle, something wet and slimy yet somehow managing to press tightly into his skin. Now he _does_ panic, because if he’s become entangled in seaweed and he can’t free himself, he’s fucked.

Suddenly he’s hoisted up and his head breaks the surface of the water. Armin coughs and sputters, gasping for air, before he realizes that the seaweed or whatever it is is still around his ankle. He barely has time to register the _What the hell?_ in his mind before he feels the same slippery pressure around the other ankle.

His heart starts to pound. He’s read about dangerous creatures of the sea, animals like sharks and barracuda and poisonous jellyfish. This… this doesn’t seem like any of those things. There was a creature in his grandfather’s book called an octopus that _could_ , theoretically, grab a swimmer’s ankles, but it was described as shy, preferring to conceal itself in a dark cloud of its own excretion until it could escape from whatever was frightening it.

If anything, if he’s not in fact dealing with some kind of weird half-sentient species of seaweed, what’s got hold of him is more like one of the fantastical monsters that the author mentioned in passing. Something that men used to believe in, but don’t anymore.

He tries to distract himself by craning his head around, trying to sight the shore. He can’t.

He’s at sea.

And suddenly whatever it is that’s holding him has now curled slippery appendages around his wrists.

His survival training, his abilities to strategize and manipulate, what he’s learned from reading — none of that’s going to help him now. The only thing that will is the echo of what Eren told Mikasa, so many years ago, words they’ve never repeated to anyone other than Armin: _If you don’t fight, you can’t win._

He begins to thrash, straining at the four… things holding his limbs in place below the surface of the water. They don’t budge.

Without warning, whatever it is that’s got hold of him lifts him higher, clearing him completely of the water’s surface by at least a few meters. It holds him horizontal, face-up, limbs spread, the sun beating down on his bare skin. He realizes how chilled he’d become under the water. He’s still shivering a little, wet as he is and with the breeze skimming over him, but moment by moment he feels himself begin to warm.

He notices something else: The appendages around his wrists and ankles aren’t truly cold. They’d become chilled in the water, too, but they’re warming quickly now, too quickly for them to belong to a cold-blooded creature. He’s surprised. He knows there are some warm-blooded animals in the deep, like dolphins, but not anything with…

Armin raises his head and looks at his left wrist, then cranes his neck to look at the right one, then peers forward at his ankles.

 _Those look like tentacles,_ he thinks. _Octopus tentacles. Except … an octopus is cold-blooded. And its tentacles have suckers on their undersides. And octopus tentacles aren’t supposed to be **that** prehensile... are they?_

His musings are interrupted by the feel of a fifth tentacle. It slides around his waist, encircling it completely. It doesn’t take much to do so; Armin’s grown a little more since his first days in the Survey Corps, but he’ll always be fairly small.

Then there’s a sixth tentacle winding its way around his left leg, and a seventh doing the same to his right, and an eighth… a ninth...

With a cry of panic, Armin tries to struggle again. The appendages that have already taken hold of him tighten their grips, and he can feel several more begin to slide over him — encircling the top of his head, wrapping around his shoulders and upper back, coiling up and down his arms, banding about his chest. In some places, they overlap. Within seconds he’s completely immobilized within a taut living net.

He fights off hyperventilation by forcing himself to breathe slowly and think. If this thing perceived him as a threat to be killed, he thinks, he’d be dead already. If it saw him as its next meal, then the tentacles around his wrists and ankles would have held him sufficiently still. Maybe it plays with its food, like a cat with a mouse, but he’s not even slightly injured.

_So what does it want with me?_

And that’s when he feels it: The tapered, finely pointed ends of two tentacles, which had been lying more or less flat against his chest, suddenly curl around his nipples and begin to flick at them with their tips.

A hard snap of pleasure goes through Armin, but within the restraints of the tentacles the jolt of his body is repressed to barely a shiver. He watches the two slender appendages tighten and pull on him, the pointed tips working relentlessly, and he utters a dazed, trembling _“unnnnghhh”_ as he feels blood surge hot and forceful into his cock.

He becomes aware of a third tentacle point, the one that’s coiled around his left leg like a serpent around prey. It begins to stroke the crease between his torso and his thigh, gently and teasingly, and the one around his right leg mirrors the action. Armin whines and, without thinking, arches his back. The net of tentacles actually shifts a bit to accommodate his movement, and when his thighs are a little further apart it tightens once again to hold him perfectly still. 

The two points move inward, caressing his inner thighs right at the top, carefully avoiding touching anything between them. Armin moans. He knows there is absolutely nothing right about this scenario — _this thing shouldn’t exist, and even if it did, the book said nothing about mythological creatures that molest people, and, oh, God, I shouldn’t be enjoying it at all, what the hell is wrong with me..._ But the light, tantalizing touch is consuming his mind, narrowing his perception down to anticipation of one or both of the tentacles moving further inward—

Neither of them do. A third one coils itself around his cock with excruciating slowness, from the base upward, until it is exerting precisely the amount of pressure he’d use to bring himself off. Slyly, its tip wriggles under his foreskin and draws it back. Then he feels yet another delicate tendril curling around the exposed head of his cock, slithering wetly back and forth over it, tip extending downward to caress the underside of the rim. As the other tentacle slides up and down the shaft like his own fist, the new one traces the slit in the head over and over until the feeling is just this side of unbearable and he’s begging, pointlessly and none too coherently, for it to stop.

He knows he’s bound too tightly even to writhe, but he can’t stop his muscles from trying. They tremble ineffectually before he goes limp against the restraining appendages, panting, eyes huge and seeing nothing. The utter immobility, his inability to distract at all from the sensations with movements of his own, makes the play of the other tentacles over the most sensitive parts of his body all the more intense.

The tendril around his cock, the one that somehow knows just how he fists himself, continues to jack him. The other one has abandoned the slit to brush its fine tip over various spots under the rim of the head, experimenting, returning to the places that make Armin twitch or squeal particularly hard. Meanwhile the pair of tentacles caressing his inner thighs is still in motion, and so is the pair teasing at his nipples.

He feels the familiar spasms building in him, and whatever this thing is must feel them too, because all of them pick up speed as they flick their ends over his flesh. The tentacular restraints grip him tightly, not letting him so much as tremble now, and his awareness is narrowed down to the sun in his eyes and the relentless, merciless stimulation. He cries out and comes hard, coating his own belly with semen.

The various tendrils slow down, stop. The restraints loosen fractionally. Armin feels one tentacle across his upper back rub soothingly over the skin, as if in praise for a job well done. He wonders whether that’s ridiculous, ascribing that kind of motivation to whatever this thing is. He decides that the situation as a whole is too bizarre for the word “ridiculous” to apply to any one part of it. Also, just at this moment, he feels loose and relaxed and can’t bring himself to care all that much as to whether this thing is mutely praising him.

He’s vaguely wondering if and when and how it’s going to release him when he feels the tendrils between his legs slip lower. One of them coils around his balls, sliding back and forth, which kind of feels good and kind of tickles. He grits his teeth and sucks in his breath. A second is pressing against his perineum, which feels even better, and a third is running its delicate tip around and around—

“No! _Stop!_ ”

The outburst is automatic; he didn’t expect whatever it is to know human language. Equally unthinkingly he tries to sit up within the net of tentacles and to close his legs, but it tightens around him again, holding him perfectly still.

A new appendage rises before his face, thick and heavy. Its tip is blunt and round, rather than pointed, and it is oozing. The tip brushes against his lips, painting them with its warm, sticky, salty-sweet exudation. It’s revolting, and the sensation is ticklingly light in an irritating way, but Armin is unable to turn his head at all.

The tentacle presses harder against his mouth. With horror, he suddenly understands what the creature wants — reciprocation — and he clenches his jaw more tightly and flattens his lips shut. Another tentacle, thinner and more prehensile, descends over his nose and clamps his nostrils together. When he opens his mouth to gasp, the first appendage shoves itself in before he can bite down again, and the second winds itself around his jaw and exerts pressure so that he can’t bite down at all. Armin gags on the viscous fluid that drips down his throat, then on the tentacle itself, which has begun to fuck his face languidly, almost arrogantly.

Meanwhile, the slender tentacle probing his hole has begun to stroke just inside it with its fine, delicate tip. He realizes with further horror that this will likely not be the only one to enter him there, and certainly not the largest. It’s not like he’s never had anything inside him before, but some of the tentacles wrapped around him are much bigger than any human penis, and what the creature’s doing to his mouth right now suggests what it also might like to do to his ass.

A second tendril joins the first there, easing its own tip inside him, and in unison both slither in more deeply. It’s pleasurable, horrifyingly pleasurable, and — despite the slick fluid reaccumulating at the back of his throat — he groans around the thrusting mouthful of tentacle-cock at the realization that he’s become quite hard again. 

Then there’s a third tendril slipping into him, and the combined girth of the three begins to distend him as each individual tip finds a separate spot inside him to caress. One of them encounters his prostate gland and begins to pay loving, painstaking attention to it, eliciting stifled whimpers from Armin. No tendril has wrapped itself around his cock this time, or begun to toy with his glans, and as he is invaded fore and aft he feels ashamed and disgusted at his own visceral desire to have the creature also masturbate him to a second orgasm.

Suddenly, instead of one tendril stroking his prostate lightly, all three are pushing against it, pointed ends rubbing and pressing with force. Another orgasm is rising in his balls, as forceful as a wave. His hips are trembling but he can’t thrust so much as a centimeter, held in place as tightly as he is. It concentrates his mind entirely on the stimulation, and he feels himself begin to slip over the edge — and then there _is_ a tentacle around his cock, at the base, constricting tightly, damming his semen inside him, stilling the tremors before they grow into spasms, then releasing him once climax has become impossible.

Tears spill from Armin’s eyes down his face and onto the thick monstrous sea-cock that is now plunging in and out of his mouth with malevolently gleeful abandon. He tries to ignore the dull but mind-consuming ache in his groin by concentrating on his breathing, and in order to breathe he has to stop crying, because if his nose fills with mucus he’ll suffocate. He lets his mouth and throat go as slack as he can make them, and he tries to imagine that what’s driving in and out of them is Eren’s cock. Eren isn’t as big as that tentacle — nobody is — but still Armin tries to conjure up in his mind’s ear how Eren pants and whines and moans when Armin sucks him off.

The tendril that choked off his orgasm left him strainingly hard, but now the erection has become as pleasurable again as it is painful. Then, all of a sudden, all three tentacles slip out of him except for the very tips, which grasp the rim of his hole and pull it widely open.

Even before he feels the uncanny shift of air beneath him he knows what’s about to happen. The new tentacle is even huger than the one in his mouth but otherwise much the same: firm yet yielding to the touch, blunt-tipped, oozing warmly and wetly. As it lodges its head just inside him, the three tendrils slip out of its way, moving forward and upward again to linger teasingly in the furrows of his thighs.

Those three have left him fairly stretched out between their collective breadth and all their thrusting about inside him. It’s still not enough. Though the giant tentacle-cock is moving extremely slowly, working its viscous ooze into him to ease the way, Armin feels like he’s being impaled on the barrel of a cannon. He would scream, but his mouth is still being vigorously fucked, and only pathetic muffled sounds of terror escape it.

Despite the fear he’s still hard, God only knows how. As the other tentacle pushes and pushes into him, he tries to breathe through his nose again and relax, because he knows that tensing in resistance will only cause his flesh to tear.

He thinks about Eren again. Eren, holding him down and pushing his thighs and buttocks apart and plunging into him, sometimes with nothing more than spit because they’ve run out of oil and it’s not like you can tap the trees for it when you’re in the wilderness, and sometimes not even enough spit because their mouths are so dry. Eren, hot and sweaty against his back and turning Armin’s name into soft breathy moaning shapes. Armin feels his inner muscles twitch, flare, acquiesce.

Suddenly the tentacle thrusts into him harder. It’s a smooth but heavy pressure over his prostate, and he yelps around the one fucking his mouth. Then the other one is all the way inside him, or at least as deep as his body will permit.

It stays there for a moment before it pulls mostly out, until again only the head is just inside the outer ring of muscle, and then it _shoves_ itself back in, _hard_. Though the web of other appendages holds him steady, the motion jars his bones even as it sets off a tight hot jangle of the nerves in his prostate. He whines in simultaneous discomfort and pleasure around the tentacle in his mouth.

The other sea-cock eases nearly all the way out again, then drills back into him again just as pitilessly. As it finds a rhythm, the tempo of its thrusts speeds up. Armin’s prostate has begun to throb with the rough, repetitive stimulus, and it’s not entirely pleasant, but his cock doesn’t seem to care about that.

The tentacle raping his mouth picks up the same rhythm, moving faster and harder, and it had not been moving slowly or gently before. Armin is gagging now, his eyes watering, every time it hits his soft palate. And, _still_ , he’s harder than oak.

Drowning in the hyperstimulation of the giant cock-things penetrating his mouth and his ass, he’s almost forgotten about the tendrils, even though they haven’t stopped lightly tracing the creases between his torso and thighs. Now they slide downward again. One clings to his balls, slithering over them, squeezing gently. A second slides its tip into the slit of his cock and tickles the inside — and, fuck, that feels _weird_. But before he can fully take in the sensation, the tendril that jacked him the first time has once again wound itself snugly around the shaft. It doesn’t bother to tease now; it just fists him off, fast and hard. And, as if all this weren't enough, finely pointed tentacles are tightening around his nipples again, tips flicking over the ends.

When he comes again it’s as though the creature is pulling his orgasm not only out of his balls but out of the roots of his hair, out from under his nails, out of the marrow of his bones. He feels his own semen hit his chest and throat, hot and sticky. The tendril around his cock continues to milk him in tandem with the tentacle in his ass ramming his prostate until all the sensation in his loins is a razor-sharp buzz of near-pain and he’d be shrieking if he could do anything except whimper.

That’s when he feels both tentacle-cocks begin to spasm. Salty-sweet warm stickiness floods his soft palate and drips down his throat; Armin swallows convulsively, fighting the urge to vomit for fear of asphyxiation. His insides are suddenly bathed in the same viscous fluid, which drips out of him, oozing down his inner thighs and the back of his balls.

The tentacle-cocks withdraw from him as they soften and shrink. He gasps for air, spitting and coughing and rasping. Then the net of appendages that had been holding him above the water unravels all at once, as if the creature’s just discovered it was holding something distasteful.

In freefall, Armin cries out, a wet and bubbling sound. He hits the surface of the water with a hard smack that leaves the entire back of his body stinging, and he plunges beneath. Too drained and dazed to struggle, he lets momentum carry him down, and water starts to fill his lungs again. The luminous blue all around him dances with painful white lights before it goes completely black.

*

_“Armin!”_

“Armin, wake up!”

The feeling of being shaken jars him into opening his eyes, which he immediately shuts tightly against the harsh glare of the sun off the water. He tries again, squinting this time, to see Mikasa and Eren looking down at him, eyes wide. Mikasa is pale as the underbelly of a fish, but Eren is bright red, and his touch on Armin’s shoulder burns.

Armin clumsily props himself up on his elbows, turns his head, and coughs out a mouthful of water. The taste is a nasty combination of salty-sweetness and bile. He hears more water roar and crackle in his ears. Though the front of him feels deathly chilled, from the back of his head to the backs of his legs he’s warm if still damp. He realizes that the back of him is caked with sand from where Eren and Mikasa laid him down on the shore — or where the tide deposited him. It’s abrasive in … certain places that have already been highly sensitized.

“Armin.” Eren’s hot arm is around his shoulders now, heedless of the sand stuck there. “Are you okay?”

Armin nods, then says, weakly and scratchily, “Yeah. How’d I get back here?” His face suddenly feels hot. He darts a glance downward, but the water must have washed all the …. fluids away, as well as left him stark-white with chill. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fresh bitemarks on Eren’s right hand.

“I shifted,” Eren says, and Armin can see the pulse hammering at the side of his throat. “I walked around in the water for a fair distance, even swam when it got more than fifteen meters deep — I didn’t see you anywhere. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, Armin.” There are tears in his voice. “Mikasa was screaming for me as well as for you. I gave up and came back to the shore and collapsed—”

“—and I grabbed my traveling knives out of my clothes and cut him out of the nape,” Mikasa finishes for him. “Just as he came to and the titan body started to sublimate, you washed up on the sand, coughing up water.”

“You were breathing.” Eren’s babbling now. “Oh, thank God, you were _breathing._ ” He pulls Armin in tightly to him, and Armin hisses at the feel of Eren’s scalding flesh against his own icy skin. Mikasa throws her arms around the both of them, not caring any more about damp sand than Eren does.

His arms are pinned between them, so other than laying his head reassuringly against Eren’s neck, Armin just passively lets them hold him and each other. After a while has passed in silence, he says, “You always said the world was both cruel and beautiful, Mikasa.” Then he laughs shakily. “The sea isn’t any different, I guess.”


End file.
